


Blood is Thicker Than Wine

by queenmevesknickers



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Everyone Is Alive, Fairy Tale Elements, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mystery, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmevesknickers/pseuds/queenmevesknickers
Summary: "I thought my heart would break. I was content with my lot no longer; I knew I had to do something...or I would surely die of grief. So I went to find the Witch of the Woods. I wasn’t sure where to go - then I saw the birds…ravens, that seemed to be staring at me. I followed them, deeper and deeper into the woods…until they led me to her..."After three wars, there is peace at last in the North, and Gascon is finally ready to head home to Lyria and make the most of it with his old friends. But Meve's unruly son Anséis soon draws them south to the fair duchy of Toussaint - where much is not as it seems...
Relationships: Anséis (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Gascon Brossard/Original Male Character(s), Meve/Reynard Odo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Once Upon a Time

However much he delighted in roaming, it _was_ nice to have a home to return to, Gascon thought as he rode through the gates of Lyria castle. To know that at the end of every journey, there was a comfortable bed, a roaring hearth, and friends who were dear to him, was a greater comfort than he ever would have imagined. And life on the road had begun to lose some of its appeal in the last year or two, he had to admit; whilst he was proud of the grief his lads and lasses had managed to cause Radovid’s armies, there was no denying that their path had been far from easy – defying the king had been fraught with danger, more danger than even he could always delight in. But at last there was peace in the North – for now, at least – and he rather thought that he was finally ready to enjoy it.

He found Meve sitting in the library – a room seldom used by anyone in the castle, and therefore an exceptionally good hiding place. It was not somewhere one often found the queen, however, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she might be doing here today.

“Well, if this ain’t a sight for sore eyes – my favourite queen in th’ North, in the flesh.”

Meve’s expression had been vaguely troubled, but when saw him her face lit up with that bright, dazzling smile that never failed to lift his heart.

“Gascon! You didn’t send word – I’d no idea you were coming!”

“Thought I’d surprise you this time, instead.” He flopped gracelessly onto the somewhat musty chaise beside her and deposited his head in her lap with a sigh of contentment. She gave him a half-hearted shove, but almost immediately relented and allowed him to remain where he was, running a hand absent-mindedly through his curls as they talked.

“What brings you back this time? Is it just another flying visit, or can we expect th’ pleasure of your company for a few weeks, at least?”

“Oh, I’m back for good this time, Meve, I swear. Don’t s’pose I can have those estates back now, can I?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said last time, and it’s been almost a year since we saw you.”

He pulled a face. “This time’s different, believe me. I’ve had my fill of soldiering now. Enough of mud and marchin’, enough of having people try to hack me to bits with swords – I got quite the pretty cut a few months ago; I’d show you, but well, it’s rather close to a sensitive area – far too close in fact, for my liking.”

She snorted. “What’s this? The notorious Duke o’ Dogs, the leader of th’ infamous Iron Falcons, settling down for good? I’ll not believe it till I see it.”

He stretched and yawned and turned his head to grin lazily up at her. “Well, just you wait and see then, Mevie. I won’t be running away again any time soon, I promise.”

She returned his smile despite herself. “In that case, yes, I suppose you may have your lands back again. Their previous beneficiary,” she said, an edge creeping into her voice, “has been relieved o’ th’ burden of their ownership.”

Gascon hid his amusement. Meve’s relationship with her elder son might have improved considerably in the years since the war, but now it seemed his younger brother drew his mother’s ire ever more frequently. “What’s His Royal Highness done now, then?”

“Run away to th’ knight’s tourney in Toussaint – against my _express_ command.” She scowled. “And as he’s made it clear he does not wish to be my subject, he can make his own way from now on – until he’s ready to tow th’ line.”

“I thought he did rather poorly, th’ last two years – didn’t he come dead last? You got to admit, he’s determined, if nothing else.”

“He’s as much a blockhead as his father was,” she grumbled. “Though he failed to inherit Reginald’s talent in th’ joust, it seems. Reynard’s tried to help him, but he just won’t listen – stubborn whelp that he is.”

Wherever he thought Anséis might have inherited his stubbornness from, Gascon wisely kept it to himself. “Ah, he’s hardly more than a lad, Meve,” he began indulgently. “He just dreams of glory like any other young fool – he’ll grow out of it eventually…”

“Whether he does or not is no longer of any concern to me,” she replied. “But I’ve no doubt a few months of trying to make his own way as a knight errant will knock some sense into him – elsewise he’s even denser than I thought. Enough of Anséis, however – what do you mean to do with yourself now? I should think there were yet more than a few ladies of the court who’d jump at th’ chance to bag th’ Duke of Scala…”

He looked at her with alarm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now – I’m not ready to settle down _quite_ that thoroughly just yet. Speaking of settling down, though…what about you then, Meve?”

He’d expected another playful shove, or perhaps an arch admonishment to mind his own business. He had not been expecting Meve to narrow her eyes and demand: “What have you heard?”

“Nothing at all – why d’you ask?” he replied quickly, rather taken aback at her reaction.

That was not strictly true. Reports had reached even him that during a recent visit from a royal delegation from Skellige, the queen and Count Odo had been overheard having quite the row. Though gossip was rife, no one seemed to be certain of the nature of the disagreement between the queen and her right-hand man, nor its cause, though there was plenty of speculation on the subject. Gascon hadn’t really paid the tales any heed; Meve and Reynard had seemed happy enough the last time he’d seen them, and though they had their quarrels from time to time – hardly avoidable when a temper such as Meve’s was involved – he did think that they were as well-suited to each other as any two people could be. His curiosity was piqued now, however – perhaps there was some substance to the rumours, and his two friends _had_ had a falling out. There was little point in asking Meve about it, though – she and Reynard seemed blissfully unaware that their relationship was the worst kept secret in the Lyrian court and were both notoriously private about it, for all it was perfectly clear they were besotted with each other.

Meve hesitated, and for a moment he wondered if she would tell him what was going on after all – but a knock at the door interrupted them. Gascon sat up quickly as a footman entered the room; normally, he wouldn’t give a damn for either gossip or propriety, but until he knew better the lie of the land, it seemed pointless to add fuel to any fires which might be blazing.

“Your Majesty – an envoy has arrived from Toussaint, and requests an audience.”

Meve gave an exasperated sigh. “Why am I surprised? Come on,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s find out what sort of diplomatic incident my son has managed to cause _this_ time.”

To see the show Meve’s court put on for their unexpected guests, one would never have guessed that she’d held on to her throne by the skin of her teeth a scant three years before. But it was clear the Lyrian court was not about to let their elegant neighbours to the south see them at anything but their best. As for the envoys, well – Gascon had met plenty of Toussaint knights on his travels, and these examples certainly did not disappoint, from their brightly coloured and elaborate armour, which made even Meve’s gilded plate appear modest by comparison, to their flourishing bows and ridiculously courtly manners. 

“Your Royal and Most Gracious Majesty,” began the most finely gilded and be-plumed knight of them all, clearly the leader of the group. “It is an honour – nay, a delight – to be graced with your presence.”

Meve regarded him thoughtfully. “Sir Henri de Vedette, is it not? I recall you were part of the delegation that visited our court some years ago, when my husband was alive, if I am not mistaken.”

The knight bowed again, somehow even more deeply, which Gascon would not previously have thought possible. “I am touched, truly, that I merited Your Majesty’s notice sufficiently that you would recognise me now, young as I was then – though I do not find the years have touched Your Grace at all, if I may be so bold.”

These sorts of courtly compliments usually received little more than a bland thanks from Meve, who cared little for flattery. But astonishingly, her cheeks coloured a little. “Why, that’s very kind of you to say, Sir Henri – but you have not changed so very much yourself. And I recall you acquitted yourself with great honour at the tournament we held then.”

The Toussaint knight _was_ quite handsome, he supposed, with his fair colouring and light grey eyes, and he hardly looked a day over thirty – though Gascon knew Sir Henri must be older than he was if he’d competed in a tourney when Reginald was alive. Reynard, he noted, was regarding the knight with very thinly veiled dislike.

“But to what do we owe th’ pleasure of your visit?” continued Meve. “For I doubt your duchess has sent you here on any trifling matter.”

“In fact, Your Majesty, it is not the Duchess’ business on which I have journeyed here today – though of course, we have travelled with Her Enlightened Ladyship’s blessing – but rather, on a family matter. Your Grace, I come to bear the extraordinary and joyous news that your son, His Highness Prince Anséis, and my cousin, the fair Lady Isabelle, are engaged to be married.”

Meve blinked. “Is that so?” she managed, after a pause.

Sir Henri, apparently noting her less than enthusiastic reaction, began to look a little anxious. “Indeed, my lady. And may I assure you that my cousin is a lady of most excellent rank and family, and high in the favour of the Duchess herself, and possessed of innumerable and admirable virtues –”

“Yes, yes, I have no doubt,” said Meve, waving her hand a little impatiently. “Forgive me, Sir Henri, I am sure your cousin is as fair and virtuous a young woman as they come. It is merely a surprise to me that my son intends to wed – and apparently, so suddenly.”

The knight, reassured, appeared to regain his composure. “Ah, Your Majesty – they are young, and deeply in love; it is how these things happen sometimes, no? But please be assured, my family wishes not to cause you any distress – no preparations will be made, no contracts signed, no date set, until we are assured of your blessing – we would not wish to cause any offence to your gracious self.”

“No offence is taken, Sir Henri, you may rest easy – I appreciate your consideration. However, as I am sure you can understand, the marriage of a royal prince is not a matter than can be taken lightly – I shall have to give it due consideration.”

The knight bowed once more, once again impressing Gascon by sinking to a new depth. “Of course, Your Majesty. You must take all the time that is required. I am your humble servant, and shall wait until such time as I may convey your blessings – or otherwise – to my kin.”

Meve, Gascon, Reynard and Villem gathered in the council chambers after this extraordinary announcement, to best determine what ought to be done.

“Well, it speaks well of her family, at least,” said Villem, breaking the rather charged silence, “that they care so much for your blessing.”

Meve snorted. “That I highly doubt. I think they care not so much for my blessing, as much as they care to ensure their daughter is wed to a bona fide prince, and not merely a penniless knight, estranged from the royal fold.”

Gascon shrugged. “Why not let him, then? He’s had worse ideas, surely – and hardly any skin off your back, given you’ve cut him off.”

“He’s barely twenty! He’s far too young to be getting married,” Meve snapped.

“I thought you didn’t care what he did anymore,” said Gascon.

“Not as young as you were when _you_ got married,” interjected Villem.

“That’s exactly my point,” she retorted, ignoring Gascon. “I barely managed to make a success of it, and I had _some_ idea of what I was about, at least. Anséis is likely to make as much of a mess of it as he does everything else.”

“Perhaps it’d be good for him,” said Reynard, speaking for the first time. “Marriage is supposed to be a steadying influence, after all.”

Meve gave him a piercing look. “And you’d know that, would you, Reynard? In your extensive personal experience on th’ subject?”

Gascon blinked. That was unusually harsh, even for Meve, who tended to bluntness at the best of times. He’d thought Reynard would look hurt at the remark, however, the latter merely clenched his jaw, and returned her gaze impassively.

“Well, mightn’t be th’ worst idea – we could certainly use th’ money, if the girl’s family is as wealthy as they sound. And at least someone around here would be making a useful alliance, after th’ failure of negotiations with Skellige,” muttered Villem.

“Is _that_ what that delegation was about?” asked Gascon with interest – noting that both Meve and Reynard had stiffened at Villem’s words. “I’m surprised th’ Islanders looked so far inland for allies.”

“In part, yes. Queen Cerys seems to be quite serious about diplomacy, and I suppose she has to be, given she’s put an end to th’ clans’ raiding. But she and I – well, suffice to say we didn’t suit,” sighed Villem. “Still, they left on friendly terms, at least.”

Gascon half-expected Meve to make some remark about how rulers must consider the good of their people when it came to their marriage, not the longings of their hearts. But she seemed to be lost in thought.

“You’ve made fair points, all,” she said finally. “Perhaps this is th’ sort of responsibility Anséis needs, to get him to take his role in our family more seriously. And yes – a handsome dowry wouldn’t hurt th’ royal coffers, either,” she added wryly. “But I’ll be damned if I give my blessing without seeing th’ happy couple in person first. I suppose there’s nothing for it – a royal expedition to th’ South it is.”

“Oooh, I’ve long wished to see th’ fair city of Beauclair,” Gascon chimed in immediately.

“So much for settling down, hm? Just arrived and already keen to be off again?” said Meve, eyebrow raised, though her tone was teasing. “Yes, all right, you may come – and glad of your company I will be. Villem, I take it I can entrust the kingdoms to your care in my absence?”

The prince looked astonished; Gascon realised this was likely the first time Meve had left him in charge of the realms since that last disastrous time that had culminated in his coup. “…yes, of course, Mother. I won’t let you down, I swear.”

Meve smiled at her son, and Gascon was reminded again just how far they had all come since then. “I know you won’t, my darling. I can rest easy knowing you shall be at th’ helm.”

“Would you prefer I stay behind, Meve? In case Villem has any need of my assistance?” asked Reynard, somewhat stiffly.

Gascon was surprised to see that Meve _did_ look hurt at this suggestion. “No – I had thought you would accompany me – but only if you wish to, of course…”

“Whatever you prefer,” said Reynard, as though it didn’t much matter to him either way. He stood. “I shall go and begin seeing to th’ arrangements at once.”

“Indeed,” said Meve, recovering. “I suppose I shall go and entertain our guests, and inform them we shall be returning with them.”

Gascon frowned as he watched them leave the room, before turning to Villem. Privately, he’d had his doubts about him, even after he had helped them to win the second war. But the sulky lad he’d first met all those years ago had grown into a determined and capable young man, and he had to admit, he’d begun to think of him almost as a friend.

“Villem…your mother and Reynard – are they still…you know…”

Villem rolled his eyes. “Yes, so far as I can tell. Not that either of them would ever talk to _me_ about it. But they’ve been carrying on like that for weeks, and gods only know why.” 

“So they did fight…was it about th’ Skelligans?”

“I don’t know that it was about the Skelligans, per se,” frowned Villem. “But yes, they argued, and they’ve barely been on speaking terms ever since. If you ask me – which nobody does, of course – they’d be far better off having it out, instead of trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. But since when have either of them been good at talking about their feelings?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so I decided to break my rule about only posting one WIP at a time, because I was so excited about finishing this chapter that I couldn't *not* share it. This may be slow to update as I've not written much of it yet, and _The Soldier, The Queen & The Spy_ remains my main focus, but I'll continue to work on this one whenever I need a break from that story. Very keen to hear any predictions about how you think this will fit into the Blood & Wine story, and how our favourite characters from both might interact...


	2. Prince Charming

It was a truly glorious summer day that saw their party riding through the fields and villages surrounding the city of Beauclair. Gascon had seen his fair share of prospects both fair and bleak in his years on the road; untamed wilds in the north, breathtaking in their beauty, to the warn torn fields and blighted villages that had yet to rise from the ashes of war, if they ever did. But the lush, rolling green hills and broad valleys of the southern duchy gave even the Lyrian dales a run for their money - not that he would ever say as much to Meve. The heady scent of flowers was thick in the air, and birdsong sweet as honey greeted their ears. The bright golden sunshine seemed to have a remarkable effect on the mood of their party – even Meve and Reynard were riding side by side, in a silence that appeared more companionable than stony.

In the face of renewed cordiality between the queen and her chief advisor, the dashing Sir Henri de Vedette had evidently decided to attach himself to the person of next greatest importance in their party – and it appeared he determined that it was Gascon who fulfilled this role. Gascon had no love for knights, it must be said; in his experience, it had often proven true that those who had vowed to protect the small and defend the weak too often preferred to line their pockets and exercise their strength against the very people they had sworn to defend. Reynard had improved his opinion of them very slightly, but he still considered his friend more of an outlier than a true representation of his kind; it was difficult to forget, after all, that it had been men in shining plate with brightly painted shields who had come riding onto his family’s estates that fateful day. He’d long chosen to believe that Reynard could not have been among them – but he could never bring himself to ask and know for certain.

Gascon realised that while he’d been lost in his gloomy thoughts, Sir Henri had been speaking at length, and now seemed to be expecting some sort of response from him. He’d caught the odd phrase or two, fortunately; something about the courage and resourcefulness of northern knights, something about how lucky Her Majesty was to be surrounded by such paragons of manly virtue – it had been along those lines, anyway – and realised that he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that Gascon was a knight himself.

He wasted no time in issuing a firm correction. “Ah, I lay no claim to any of those excellent virtues, friend. I’m no noble knight – I’m afraid I’m nothing but a grasping, upstart mercenary.”

Sir Henri’s mild grey eyes widened in astonishment, but he recovered quickly. “I must beg you to excuse me then, Your Grace – I know there are those among the ranks of knighthood who look down on soldiers for hire, but please, do not think me prejudiced in any way against _condottiere_ – indeed, many a fine and noble warrior has chosen to march under the colours of a free company. It might be said that the mercenary companies have the most integrity of any – although your allegiance might be bought, it is not necessarily always to the highest bidder, no? One might say a mercenary who chooses the cause he fights for, rather being bound to a crown with blind loyalty, may yet have more honour than a knight who serves an unjust ruler.”

Gascon blinked. Was he…was he being serious? A glance at the man’s earnest expression told him he was. It seemed the knight was simply too sincere to tease; that didn’t bode well for the remainder of their journey. And to be fair, he could hardly argue the contrary – his own Iron Falcons had certainly turned down several lucrative offers to keep nipping at Radovid’s heels during the last war.

“Well…yes, I suppose when you put it that way…but still, I doubt there’s many who’d call us th’ equal of knights when it comes to th’ fightin’ itself. Most of us hadn’t th’ privilege of a noble upbringing; we’ve not learnt the polished, proper way to fight with sword and shield. We must rely on our dirty little tricks to get by.”

Sir Henri surprised him again, with a look of wry amusement. “You think on the field of war, we knights are any different? Oh, we make a nice show on our tourney fields, we fight our duels for honour and glory – yet in the heat of a battle, no one has any thought but for his own survival, and to ensure that his side is the victorious one. There is little time for chivalry in battle, even among knights, Your Grace.”

Gascon winced a little at the formality. He might technically have been a real duke for seven years now, but the official title – his birthright, in fact – still didn’t sit quite so comfortably as the one he’d invented for himself had. “Don’t stand on ceremony, please, Sir Henri; just plain old Gascon will do – no, really, I insist.”

The knight gave him a peculiar look, confusion evident on his handsome features. “Formality is nearly as sacred as tradition to us Toussaintois; it will take some getting used to. But if it is your wish, then I will try – Gascon.”

As they rode on, they were joined by Meve and Reynard once more – perhaps they’d decided they’d best not test their newly-recovered amity with too much time alone together. Gascon marvelled at the pretty, stone-walled villages, the ancient vines of the vineyards, the thickly knotted oak trees. “Couldn’t be more different from th’ Northern Realms, eh?” he said in an undertone to Meve. “Plain as day th’ war didn’t come within a hundred miles of this place.”

“Truly, it’s a miracle what a little spineless capitulation can do, isn’t it?” muttered Meve darkly, with a sour look towards the proud Toussaint knights of their escort, and Gascon wisely pursued the subject no further. But soon enough the impressive silhouette of Beauclair Palace appeared on the horizon, and their journey’s end was in sight.

As they rode through the city gates, it was immediately apparent that the knight sent ahead of the rest of them to bring word of the royal visit had not failed in his duty; there were a great many townsfolk who had turned out to see the fierce and legendary northern queen and her retinue. The cheering wasn’t quite so boisterous as it was in northern cities, perhaps, but Meve graced the crowds with her dazzling smile and regal wave, and they quickly warmed to her. Soon enough, they were met by a detachment of the Ducal Guard, who greeted them with a series of bows and salutes so elaborate that Gascon thought even Meve might be hiding a smile.

“Greetings, Your Royal Majesty. Her Enlightened Ladyship, Anna Henrietta, Duchess of Toussaint, sends her most humble compliments and warm regards to you and welcomes you to the City of Beauclair. Her Grace invites you most cordially to attend on her at once so that she might convey these sentiments personally as soon as possible.”

Meve pursed her lips. “I can only be honoured by such attentiveness – indeed, how can I refuse?” She continued in an undertone, which Gascon doubted any but he and Reynard could hear, “I’d hoped to have th’ chance to refresh myself first, but doubtless even th’ most fashionable of my gowns will pale to the splendour of Her Grace’s wardrobe – so if I must be received by Her Extraordinary Loveliness still coated in dust from th’ road, so be it.”

Despite his best efforts, it was difficult not to gawk like a country peasant at the impressive façade of the castle, its white marble gleaming and its grand arches forming great windows of clear blue sky; even Meve looked mightily impressed despite herself. The interior of the palace did not disappoint either, with gilt pillars glittering in the dappled, multi-coloured light of countless stained-glass windows. With much pomp and ceremony, they were ushered into the presence of the ruler of Toussaint. If Gascon hadn’t spent much of the last few years at Meve’s side, he would certainly have been fascinated by her; as it was, it was impossible not to admire her. She was as intimidating as she was lovely, radiating a dazzling charm which did nothing to conceal the calculating glint in her eyes. But when he glanced at Meve, he felt his heart swell with pride. Despite her remark about missing the chance to freshen up, there was no sign of weariness anywhere in her bearing; she stood as tall and proud as she did before her armies, every inch the queen in her gilded plate, even before the duchess in all her courtly finery.

Courtiers and guards from both sides made appropriate obeisance as the two women regarded each other calmly, each seeming to wait for the other to make a move. Finally, they gave each other a gracious incline of their heads, and the Duchess spoke.

“Your Majesty, we welcome you most humbly to our home,” she began, in a voice so dripping with pride Gascon had to wonder if she’d ever experienced humility in her life. “It is our pleasure to receive you here, and especially on such a joyous occasion.”

Irritation flickered briefly over Meve’s face. “Joyous indeed. What could delight any mother more, to hear her son has managed to meet a woman, fall in love, and propose marriage to her within the space of two weeks. But I’ve heard much praise for the young lady – I understand she is fortunate enough to enjoy your favour, Your Grace.”

If Anna Henrietta was amused by this, it didn’t show. “Lady Isabelle de Vedette is certainly deserving of much praise; she has served me with a respect and dedication that has touched me deeply. But we have hardly seen anything of the girl since she caught the eye of your son; I suppose she has as much weakness for a pretty face as any other.” The duchess’ tone made it plain that she did not believe a prince of the north was a conquest one ought to be particularly proud of.

Meve bristled. Gascon knew that although she might disparage her younger son as easily as she drew breath, she wasn’t about to let anyone else do so, much less the duchess. “Indeed, Your Grace. I am sorry my son’s attentions have caused her to neglect her duties,” she replied, eyebrow raised. “I’m sure they can be suitably redirected if it has caused you too great an inconvenience.”

Anna Henrietta laughed, a bright, chiming sound. “Please, do not think us unsympathetic to the young lady’s plight; we can well understand the appeal of a dashing, noble knight – why, surely you can too, Your Majesty.” The Duchess gave Reynard, who was suddenly very interested in the wall-hangings, a rather appraising look.

“Perhaps I do,” said Meve coolly. “I am surprised, however – I thought Your Grace’s taste tended rather more towards _poetr_ y than th’ sword.”

Gascon couldn’t hold back his snort at that; Reynard’s eye gave a twitch. Anna Henrietta merely pursed her lips – it seemed Meve had won that round.

“We hope you shall consider our court at your disposal for as long as you grace us with your presence, Your Majesty.” The duchess’ tone was now as frostily polite as Meve’s had been. “The de Vedette family will be, no doubt, anxious to see to your comfort – they have made their well-appointed house in town available for your son’s use, and we are sure that you will find it a most suitable accommodation for you and your retinue. And if there is anything that we can do for you at all – then please, you need but say the word.”

Gascon might have expected Meve to look irritated at so obvious a dismissal, but as they departed Her Ladyship’s exalted presence, he saw a smile playing on her lips.

“Was that really wise?” Reynard murmured, as they waited for their horses to be brought round once more. “Do you wish to make an adversary of th’ Duchess?”

Meve looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about? I quite liked her. And I think,” she continued, swinging herself gracefully into her saddle, “that we understood each other perfectly.”

It was another pleasant ride to the tourney grounds, where the obliging Sir Henri had assured them they would find the wayward prince. Everything about the land was so vibrant, every colour seemed so much more intense it was almost surreal, and Gascon felt himself blinking, wondering if he would soon wake from a dream. This impression only increased when they reached their destination and were greeted by the sight of knights in armour shining so brilliantly it was almost blinding, and knots of giggling young women in bright gowns, each lovelier than the last. He caught Reynard surveying it all with a wistful expression.

“Not tempted to join th’ lists yourself, Reynard?”

“Ha. I think I’m rather of an age where being unhorsed would put me to bed for a week, rather than walking it off right away, as these young bucks do.”

“Oh please, Reynard, when was the last time anyone managed to unhorse you?” said Meve, with an indulgent smile. “True, it’s been a while since you rode in th’ lists, but unless I’m mistaken, your record for th’ number of most lances broken still stands throughout our two kingdoms.”

Reynard gave a self-deprecating shrug, but returned Meve's smile all the same. Gascon couldn’t help grinning too; finally, things were starting to feel like old times again.

It was evident that when it came to Anséis, Prince of Lyria and Rivia, the gods had not been stinting in their blessings. He had his mother's golden hair and clear blue eyes, a laugh that sounded like bells pealing, and a smile guaranteed to melt the heart of even the sternest dowager. Perhaps he'd been unlucky enough to inherit his wits from his father, yet he had sense enough to realise that his destiny as second-in-line to the throne was infinitely preferable to that of his older brother – for Anséis enjoyed many of the privileges accorded his royal status, and shouldered very few of the responsibilities. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself immensely when they found him, engaged in animated conversation with several other brightly armoured young knights. But when he looked up and saw who had arrived, his expression froze, and his laughter died on his lips.

Meve regarded her son coolly for a long moment, arms folded.

“Er – Mother,” said the prince awkwardly. “I, uh – I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“And yet, here I am,” Meve replied drily. “It seems we have much to discuss, my son – and without further delay.”

The atmosphere lost none of its charge once they were assembled in Anséis’ tent. Meve began her assault almost at once.

“I hear you are to be congratulated, Anséis. And here I was, thinking you’d never recover after all those heartbreaks you’ve nursed – let’s see, there was Lady Iulia, Countess Penelope, that green-eyed bard…”

“Generous as always, Mother. But I shan’t rise to your bait; Lady Isabelle is my one and only love, and I shall worship her until my dying breath – not that I’d expect _you_ to understand.”

Meve merely raised her eyebrows. “Grand words indeed. But perhaps you’ve forgotten that you’re no merchant’s son or country squire, free to woo and wed a pretty maid as you please – any alliance you make has political implications for our kingdoms, and therefore requires not just my approval, but that of th’ Council of Peers –”

The Prince folded his arms. “I think I’ll call your bluff, Mother – you made it perfectly clear in your charming letter that you took great pleasure in casting me off at last; so I doubt you’ve come all this way just to deny us your blessing. As for th’ Peers, well, they’re far too in awe of you after th’ last war to cross you on anything. And it just so happens that my Isabelle is a jewel who’d grace any court on th’ continent, and I’ve no doubt you’d agree once you meet her – if your pride will permit it, that is.”

Meve and her son held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The two sets of narrowed blue eyes and full lips twisted in identical expressions of displeasure made for a rather comical sight as they stood toe to toe, glaring at each other – but even Gascon knew better than to laugh right now. And even Reynard looked a little uncomfortable at the mounting tension between mother and son. Finally, however, Anséis looked away, and Meve’s expression became victorious.

“Alright, my son: if you’ve truly been fortunate enough to meet a woman so blessed with grace and virtue as you claim, and have somehow convinced her to marry you – though I fear her wits must be sorely lacking, in that case – then, believe me, I shall not stand in th’ way of your felicity. I am prepared to bestow my approval on th’ match – once I’ve met the fair maiden in question, of course.”

For the first time, Anséis began to look a little hopeful. “Truly?”

Meve sighed. “Yes, truly. Though she’d best put th’ sun itself to shame, my dear, with how highly everyone has been singing her praises.”

It was determined that Anséis would accompany them back to house his intended’s family had offered up to the Lyrian guests, and stay with them the night before returning to the tourney grounds the next day. Despite the addition of the prince’s company, Gascon was still looking forward to a good dinner with his friends now that peace seemed to be reigning once more. However, this was not to be; evidently, there was some disagreement between them on the ride back to the Villa de Vedette, for once they arrived, Meve and Reynard were cold towards each other once more, and Reynard was quick to claim the bedroom at the end of the corridor; the furthest possible from Meve’s. It seemed that Anséis was the only one among them immune to the renewed tension, and he attempted to cajole them all into a practice bout with him, though he lost some of his eagerness when Reynard was the only member of their party who agreed, albeit with some reluctance, to oblige him.

Once Gascon had settled himself into his room, and satisfied his natural curiosity by thoroughly investigating every draw and cupboard he could find, he set out to find Meve. He found her in her room, staring out the window. When he reached her, he could see the sight that had so absorbed her. Down in the courtyard below, Reynard was allowing the young prince to hack away at him energetically with an air of infinite patience, clearly attempting to correct Anséis’ lacklustre technique without much success.

“He’s been a better parent to my boys than their real father ever was,” she said softly. "Or their mother, for that matter."

Privately, Gascon agreed, but thought it best not to share that particular view right now.

She sighed. “Why does he have to be so – so –”

“Uptight? Prudish? Reserved? Bad at charades?"

“So damned _good_ ,” she snapped in frustration, though her voice cracked with a sob.

“Oh, Mevie,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened for a moment, then yielded into the embrace, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Won’t you tell me what this is all about?”

It seemed a moment of comfort was all Meve was prepared to allow herself. "No," she said, quickly pulling back and wiping her eyes. "It's nothing – nothing you can help with, anyway, Gascon. I'd rather not dwell on it. Now, d’you suppose we have to attend the mêlée tomorrow – and doubtless witness Anséis’ utter annihilation – or d’you think we can get out of it, somehow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo since posting Chapter 1, I got *very* excited about this story and decided to crack on! There'll be six chapters total, and they now have titles (Chapter 1 has been updated to include its title now!). I've written just over half of this work, so expect to see further updates quite soon. I've been so thrilled by everyone's reaction to this story and the ~drama~ so far, please do keep sharing your thoughts and theories - it makes my day every single time ❤️


	3. The Maiden Fair

Gascon was not usually one for grand balls held in splendid palaces; full of stiff, uptight nobles, women who were more interested in his title than his smile, and men who cared more about the size of his lands than anything he had to say. He much preferred the informal, joyful village dances where pretty lasses and handsome lads were always eager to dance and sing around the fire, and share kisses in the moonlight behind a barn. He’d managed to avoid attending any of those glittering, sophisticated functions since he’d run away from Meve’s court the first time, and if he was honest, the lack of earth-shatteringly dull feasts had been part of the appeal of life on the road. So it said much about the state of affairs in Villa de Vedette that Gascon was actually looking forward to the festivities they were attending that evening to celebrate the young couple’s engagement – for he didn’t think he could stand another night in Meve, Reynard and Anséis’ company.

Meve and Reynard seemed to have struck some kind of awkward truce, in which they had traded the cold silences and occasional bickering for being painfully polite to each other – which was so uncomfortable for everyone else Gascon almost wished they’d just resume hostilities. Meanwhile, mother and son continued to butt heads at every opportunity; the fact that Meve had declined to attend the mêlée, and thus missed Anséis’ only victory, remained a sore point.

“I’d have thought you’d at least be proud of my efforts to prove myself as a knight; Villem can barely tell one end of a sword from t’other –”

“Your brother knows his strengths, at least – and sticks to them. Though I will admit, I am impressed that you were th’ second out, and not th’ first.”

“Cost me th’ gold I bet on him bein’ th’ first man down, though,” muttered Gascon, though he quickly pretended not have said anything when they both turned to stare coldly at him.

“Besides,” continued Anséis, “my personal…uh, result…is not what matters here. Th’ point is, I was th’ captain of th’ victorious team –”

“And, no doubt, it was your expert leadership that led to their triumph,” cut in Meve, with a roll of her eyes. “Unless I’m much mistaken, you weren’t crowned champion of th’ tourney at th’ day’s end, were you?”

This remark caused Anséis to redden and mumble something indistinctly.

“Who was, out of curiosity?” This time, they both ignored him.

“It’s that over-head attack, Anséis,” interjected Reynard. “That’s exactly what I was trying to show you th’ other day…” But when those two sets of blue eyes turned their withering expressions on Reynard, he quickly fell silent too.

So it was with a sense of relief, rather than trepidation, that Gascon followed the three of them over the threshold of the de Vedette family’s imposing seat, and no small amount of curiosity – for they were finally about to meet Anséis’ much-talked-of betrothed. The de Vedette family were ready to greet them, with many deep and appropriate bows and curtseys directed to Meve. Sir Henri made the introductions between the two parties; Anséis, of course, was already well-known to them, and Gascon was amused to see Lord and Lady de Vedette regarding him as eagerly as a farmer might a newly purchased prize bull. But when Lady Isabelle was ushered forward to meet them, Gascon had to make an effort to prevent his mouth from dropping open.

It ought not to have been surprising that Anséis had managed to catch the attention of a beautiful, high-born lady - whatever his mother might think of his virtues, or lack thereof, Anséis was still a prince, and of one of the few free kingdoms left in the North. All the same, he felt even he and Reynard were a little taken aback when they beheld his bride-to-be. Little Isabelle – Gascon couldn’t help but think of her thus, for she _was_ little, even to him – matched every description of the fairest maidens in fairy tales. Her wide, dark eyes were fringed with impossibly long lashes, her cheeks faintly pink against her creamy complexion; her lips were full and rosy in their hue, and her hair hung in heavy chestnut curls down her back. Though she was undeniably, devastatingly lovely, Gascon was immediately struck by an uneasy feeling as he regarded her. She reminded him more of a doll than anything – her skin was as smooth and flawless as porcelain, her neck and wrists so dainty he rather feared a sudden movement might see them crack. She was a little _too_ exquisite, a little _too_ delicate; it hardly seemed possible that she could be real. Anséis, however, seemed to think nothing was amiss and greeted his beloved with a kiss on a hand that turned her cheeks crimson; she regarded him with eyes that shone so brightly it seemed that to her, at least, he was the one who was too good to be true.

It seemed that she was painfully shy – her murmur of greeting on being introduced to her future mother-in-law and her companions was barely audible. Her curtsey, too, was a little awkward, as though she were afraid to move too quickly.

Meve appeared faintly bemused by the appearance of this ethereal creature but seemed determined to make the best of it, for her son’s sake. “Lady Isabelle – it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I can well understand now how my son was so easily captivated.”

Gascon supposed that to a gently-reared maiden of Beauclair, the sight of Meve – tall, imposing, scarred yet austerely beautiful – was likely quite a terrifying one. But still, he would have thought a young noblewoman in the service of Duchess Anna Henrietta herself – quite awe-inspiring in her own way – would be able to manage more than a whispered: “Thank you, my lady.”

He did not have the opportunity to further contemplate Anséis’ strange little fiancée as they were all ushered through to the ballroom with great pomp and fanfare, and Lord de Vedette regaled them all with a lengthy address on the virtues of his daughter, and more emphatically, her intended. He launched into a long treatise on the chivalric values so highly regarded in Toussaint, which Gascon was surprised to find he recalled from his conversation with Sir Henri the other day. He spotted the knight, listening with rapt attention, his eyes shining with pride. He had to admit, however ridiculous and empty he found the cult of knightly virtue, it was evident that Henri was sincere in his belief – and that he wore the look of wide-eyed idealist rather well.

Fortunately, the speech did eventually end, and they were all released to enjoy the music, the food and the dancing. Gascon had to admit, if there was anything going for the celebrations given by the wealthy over those of the common folk, it was the quality of the drink – it was clear Lord de Vedette had not held back his cellar’s finest, and if he had to suffer through this party, then he’d be damned sure to make the most of it. He remained in Meve’s company for a while, but soon enough the dancing began, and it quickly became clear that every man at the ball intended to ask her for a dance. He took that as his cue to look for Reynard, who was usually a fixture by Meve’s side on all such occasions but was now nowhere to be seen. He was not remotely surprised to find his friend had sunk back into his old habit of lurking at the edge of the party, though with rather more obvious sulkiness than usual, as he sipped his wine and regarded the festivities with an expression bordering on stormy. It did not take him long to work out what might have provoked this attitude when he followed Reynard's gaze and saw Meve being expertly whirled around the dance floor by the elegant Sir Henri.

"You could be dancing with her, you know, instead of moping over here by yourself."

"I can’t keep her to myself – she’s a queen; she must share her favours. I'm well used to it, I assure you." Yet it was clear from Reynard's expression that he would much rather that Meve did not share her favours with certain Toussaint knights.

Reynard’s cheeks were a little flushed, and Gascon guessed he was rather less sober than he usually was on occasions such as these. He seized the opportunity to strike. "So…things haven't ended between the two of you, then?"

He frowned. "No. At least," he added, suddenly looking quite troubled, "I don't think so."

"Honestly, th' pair of you. One would think you and Meve were th' dramatic young lovers, not two people in their fifth decade – who ought to know better than to carry on like this, I might add."

Reynard exhaled. "Ha. This is no little lover's quarrel. It's…a difference of opinion, that we cannot reconcile."

"Have you even tried?"

But Reynard seemed to have realised what he was about. "I've no wish to speak of it further, Gascon. No, really. It won't help."

“Fine, fine. You do know what they say, though…”

“Women like handsome younger men?” This was said with a sigh, and another venomous look at Meve and Henri.

“Don’t be ridiculous – I’m sure Meve likes you even though you’re neither young nor handsome. Hah, sorry Reynard, couldn’t resist – only joking, I swear. No, I was _going_ to say: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. You’re still in your prime, and you scrub up all right – why don’t you go ask one o’ those fine ladies who’ve been eyeing you up all night to dance?”

“What?” said Reynard, turning to look at the knot of elegantly dressed women Gascon had indicated. “Now you’re the one being ridiculous.”

“I am not! Rugged Northern charm, and a war hero to boot – not to mention, lover of a queen –”

Reynard choked on his wine. “Surely they don’t know about that –” 

“You and Meve give yourselves far too much credit. I’d be surprised if there was a court on all th’ continent that doesn’t gossip about th’ two o’ you.”

“Hm.” Reynard still did not look convinced, but stood a little straighter as he glanced over to the women again, and cracked a smile despite himself as they all began whispering furiously amongst themselves. “What about you? Why’re you trying to convince me to join th’ dance when you’re not even out there yourself?”

“Hmm, can’t say I’m in th’ mood tonight.” His gaze drifted once more to Meve and her dashing partner. Sir Henri moved very gracefully for such a tall, broad-shouldered man, and he looked far more comfortable in his fashionable doublet than Reynard did. He gave a dazzling smile as he lifted Meve into the air and spun her around, causing her to laugh like a girl.

“Well, me neither,” declared Reynard, finishing his drink. He turned to Gascon, frowning a little. “Th’ happy couple, th’ reason we’re all here tonight – I haven’t seen them since we arrived. A little odd, don’t you think?”

“Huh. Now that you mention it…”

At that very moment, Meve joined them once more. ‘Where’s Anséis?” she demanded at once.

“Where’s Sir Henri?” muttered Reynard. Gascon kicked him in the shin.

“What?”

“Nothing, Meve,” Gascon replied hastily. “Reynard and I were just saying – we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Anséis or his lady-love in some time.”

Meve frowned. “Doesn’t bode well – it’s unlike him not to be revelling in th’ thick of things. Come, we’d best find him – before he causes some sort of unfortunate scandal.”

Fortunately, the errant prince proved quite easy to find. Almost as soon as the three of them had slipped outside to the terrace, Anséis’ voice could be heard.

“Isabelle, my darling – I don’t understand…it’s expected of us…and surely – surely you want to dance with me, don’t you?”

The lady’s soft voice could just barely be heard in reply. “I’m sorry, Anséis – I can’t, I simply can’t. Perhaps – perhaps it would be better if you went back inside, and I retired to my chambers…I’m not feeling well…”

The three of them rounded the corner, just in time to see Isabelle turn away from Anséis and make to leave the terrace. Once again Gascon was struck by that same sense of unease – there was a jerkiness to her movements that was not natural. Anséis caught her by the arm and pulled her towards him, and they heard a curious, high-pitched snapping sound. Isabelle gasped. Anséis looked down, his expression one of confusion and dawning horror, and as he slowly drew his hand away, they understood why: Isabelle’s dainty arm was marred by a faint cobweb of cracks. For a moment, it looked as though she would run, but when she glanced up and saw Meve, Reynard and Gascon, she faltered, and burst into tears.

Anséis turned to his mother helplessly, looking less like a valiant knight and more like a lost little boy. Meve shook her head slightly and exhaled, before gently, almost gingerly, taking up Isabelle’s hand and leading her over to a bench. “My dear – I think you’d better explain what on earth is going on.”

For a moment it looked as though the girl would protest, but Meve fixed her with an exceptionally queenly look. She ducked her head, and softly began to tell her story.

“I know my mother and father had always hoped to have a large family, with many sons and daughters to bring honour and glory to the de Vedette name. But though years passed, they were blessed only with me. And I – I was nothing extraordinary. I was not beautiful, my voice carried no music; I have never been witty or clever. I did not doubt that they loved me, yet I am sure I must have been a disappointment to them. But I did not see the point in despairing of my lot – I was happy enough, serving the duchess, doing my best to make my parents proud. My life held no excitement or romance, but I knew I was lucky to have my parents’ love and Her Grace’s favour, and I could ask for no more than that.

But that changed – that changed the day I saw Anséis.” She blushed furiously. “I – I had never wanted to be seen by anyone so badly. As soon as I laid eyes on him, my heart was lost, and I hoped against hope that I would catch his eye from my place in Her Grace’s train. But of course, I did not – and I thought my heart would break. I was content with my lot no longer; I knew I had to do _something_ to make him notice me, or I would surely die of grief. So I went – I went to find the Witch of the Woods.

I wasn’t quite sure where to go, at first; the tales I had heard were vague…I wasn’t even sure if she was real. But then I saw the birds…ravens, that seemed to be staring at me. I followed them, deeper and deeper into the woods…until they led me to her. She – the Witch – she was so very lovely, and so very terrible. She did not even ask what it was I wished – she seemed to know already. She demanded only if I was willing to pay the price. Gods, I don’t know how but, somehow, I found the courage to speak, and ask the cost. She requested only a lock of my hair. I know, I know – I’ve heard enough fairy tales to know that what seems too good to be true always is; I knew I ought not to trust her. But I wanted so badly to be worthy of notice, and be someone a handsome prince could love, I ignored that voice of caution, and agreed to her demand. She took it and vanished. I felt no different, and as I wandered home, I felt impossibly foolish – no doubt I had imagined the whole thing in my love-sick state. But when I woke the next morning, I found that what I had wished for had come to pass, and I could not believe my good fortune.

Anséis knows what comes next; that very day, he finally noticed me, sought me out, paid me every attention. I had never been happier in my life, and when he asked me to be his wife, I thought all my dreams had come true at last. But then – I began to notice that something was wrong. There was a stiffness to my joints, my skin began to feel…strange. Every day I looked in the mirror, and looked less like a beautiful woman, and more like…like a child’s doll. But it was not until I tripped and fell that I realised what was happening to me.” Slowly, she raised the hem of her gown, so they could all the cracks that spread across her shin; it was worse than the damage to her arm – there was a piece missing from the centre, which made Gascon rather queasy to look at. “I realised she had cursed me. Every day, almost every hour, I feel myself fading a little more – I do not know how much of me there is left. But I cannot have much longer.

She turned to Anséis. “My love, I am so sorry. I never meant to deceive you – and I free you from your obligations towards me. I can only hope that you will forgive me, in time, and think of me fondly when I am gone.”

They were all silent for some time after Isabelle had finished telling her story. Anséis looked aghast; Reynard was frowning, deep in thought. It was Meve who eventually spoke first.

"Gods, girl," she said, eyebrow raised. "You mean to say you made a terrible pact with a powerful witch, merely to make yourself pretty? Are you truly so great a fool as that?"

"How could you ever understand?!" the girl cried with a sudden passion, startling them all. "You are a beautiful woman, Your Majesty, and doubtless you always have been. You cannot fail to notice how men turn to stare when you enter the room, how they hang on every word you say, how quick they are to agree with you on any subject. Moreover, you are a queen – even if you were as homely as a drab peahen, you would have value in the eyes of others. No, you have no idea what it's like to be a plain woman – no idea at all. Can you even imagine what it is like, to be unwanted, unnoticed; to be unloved by the one you adore?"

To this outburst, even Meve had no response. Her expression softened a little. “No, I suppose you are right. I can’t say I’ve been in your shoes, and so no matter how ridiculous this mess you’ve gotten yourself into is, I ought not to judge too harshly. Tell us then, Isabelle – how can we help you?”

The girl shrugged despondently. “I don’t see how you can – I made a wish, and paid the price. I do not think the Witch could be convinced to lift the curse; even if she did, I would fear it would only be to make things worse.”

Anséis finally recovered his powers of speech. “So what – am I meant to look helplessly on as that witch’s spell takes you from me? I cannot, I will not!” He took up her hands ever so gently. “Isabelle, my love, I cannot allow such a thing to happen – I will find a way to free you from this curse.”

Meve and Reynard exchanged a glance, their differences set aside for the moment as they shared a look full of meaning. Meve spoke once more. “No more can I stand by and see you bear so harsh a punishment, for no fault greater than loving my son.” Her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “We will do whatever we can to help you, my girl.” The determination in Meve’s voice echoed that of her son’s.

This was clearly too much for the poor girl, who promptly burst into tears again, overcome. Meve sighed. “Best to get her back to her rooms, Anséis – have her maid fetched to escort her there.” She turned to Reynard and Gascon. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I think I’ve had my fill of celebrating for th’ night. High time we got to bed; we will have much to discuss come th’ morning.”

Gascon dawdled a little, letting Meve and Reynard walk ahead; he held out hope that with enough time together, they might yet sort themselves out. As he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with a very anxious-looking Henri.

“What’s going on? Is everything alright? Where are Isabelle and His Highness?”

“Uh, yes – everything’s fine. Isabelle was just a little shy about bein’ expected to dance in front of everyone, that’s all. She was uneasy about being th’ centre of attention, and Meve thought to…to comfort and advise her.”

The thought of Meve being a comforting presence to the young woman felt almost too great a stretch for Gascon, but fortunately, the knight seemed to accept the explanation without question. “Ah, of course. I should have known that my cousin’s maidenly modesty would cause her discomfort at such an event of this – yet it pleases me to hear Her Majesty already regards her so greatly as to wish to set her at ease.”

Gascon coughed. “Exactly so. But she was feeling a little…indisposed, and so has decided to retire for th’ night.”

Henri still looked a little uncertain. “Are you sure…are you sure nothing is amiss, Your Grace?

“Of course not! Everything’s right as rain, I swear.” Gascon was surprised to feel his conscience prick him for lying to Henri, but what else could he do? He’d barely begun to process the girl’s extraordinary story, and he had no idea how her cousin might react to it. “Anyway, I thought we’d agreed to end that ridiculous ‘Your Grace’ business, hm?”

The knight smiled at him. “Yes, I do recall – my apologies. Have you been enjoying yourself, Your Gr – uh…Gascon…?”

“Ah, yes, certainly I am,” he replied, a little surprised that the knight was attempting to draw him into conversation once more.

“I’m glad to hear it, though I cannot help but observe – I have yet to see you join in the dancing. Are none of the fair maidens of Beauclair handsome enough to tempt you?”

There were very few things Gascon had faith in; his belief in the gods went as far as a feeling that sometimes they arranged things just to spite him, and his conviction in the goodness of his fellow humans bordered on the non-existent. But – especially after hearing of Isabelle’s grotesque fate – he was beginning to understand the appeal of trying to see the best in things, to look for the good in the world around him. He contemplated Henri. His expression was as earnest and innocent as ever, yet he detected a note of teasing in his voice, a sparkle in those gentle grey eyes.

“Oh no, indeed, Henri – believe me, your women are lacking in neither beauty nor charm. But I must confess, none o’ th’ ladies have caught my eye tonight.”

The faint blush that rose to the knight’s cheeks indicated he had understood Gascon’s words and deliberate glance, and for a moment, he looked away. But then he turned back to face him, and said with a shy smile: “The gardens here are truly magnificent, even in the moonlight – in fact, I must confess, it is when I enjoy them most. Perhaps you would wish to see them, Gascon; if would permit me, I would be honoured to give you a tour.”

“Now that’s an offer to good to refuse,” he replied with a grin. “Lead th’ way, Sir Knight – I’m prepared to be thoroughly enchanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this story has really been writing itself! The next update will probably take a bit longer, as I haven't written much of chapter four yet...but we'll be meeting some more familiar faces very soon...


	4. A Knight in Shining Armour

It was an uncommonly good sleep from which Gascon was very rudely awakened the next morning; after years of waking at dawn and taking watches through the night, he had been making the most of the simple luxury of sleeping late. He couldn’t help but groan slightly as the sound of agitated voices on the other side of the door wrested him from some _very_ pleasant dreams and in vain, he tried to snuggle back down into the warm blankets and bury his face in the pillows. But it was no use – it was unmistakeably Reynard who was sounding more and more upset by the moment, and he had a good idea what it was about. He sighed and dragged himself out from his cosy bed, pulling the covers off to wrap around himself as he stumbled to the door, determined to prevent his friend from causing any regrettable scenes.

He was greeted by a sight which might have been amusing under other circumstances – Reynard, arms folded, and getting rather red in the face, interrogating a mortified-looking Henri, clearly dismayed at being caught out in his attempt to make a discreet exit.

“What exactly are you doing, sneaking around here at this hour, hm? I can’t imagine how you intend to explain yourself – slinking around Her Majesty’s chambers –”

“Reynard – a word please –” he said quickly, grabbing Reynard’s arm and dragging him into his room before he could challenge Henri to a duel. “Uh, good day, Sir Henri!” he called, hastily closing the door and hoping the knight would make a quick escape; he only hoped he’d have the opportunity to make it up to him later.

Reynard began to pace around the room immediately. "This is going too far," he snapped. "How could she – here, right under my nose –"

"You’re jumping to conclusions –"

"We might be having…a disagreement, but we never said that we were no longer – you know –"

"I really don't think you need to worry –"

"Is she doing this just to spite me? Or d'you think she – she cares for him –"

" _Reynard!_ Would you listen to yourself for a second! D'you really think Meve's the type to fall straight into th' arms of th' first handsome man who turns her head?" He rolled his eyes as Reynard made a non-committal noise. "You ought to know her better than that, I'd say. Besides…I don't think Meve's his type, exactly."

"How can you be so sure?" demanded Reynard, his eyes still narrowed.

"Because I _know_ Henri wasn't in Meve's bed last night – he was in mine."

Reynard blinked. "Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My apologies…I didn't realise…"

"I'm not surprised." Gascon folded his arms. "You and Meve have been rather wrapped up in yourselves of late."

"I know…truly, I’m sorrier than I can say, Gascon." He looked rather sheepish now. "Have I spoilt things for you?"

He sighed. It had been longer than he’d care to admit since he’d been with someone like that, and the thought that Henri might have been put off by Reynard’s outburst dismayed him more than he’d have thought it would. But Reynard was already at enough of a low point; he hadn’t the heart to punish him any further. "Ahhhh, probably not. I’d say it was a one-time thing – th' noble knight of Toussaint slummin' it for a night with a dubious mercenary from th' North," he replied with a wry smile. "Besides, if you were enough to scare him off, he's far too faint of heart for me."

Reynard rubbed his face with his hand. “Ugh…what’s happening to me? I’d never have said I was th’ jealous type before now…this whole affair is driving me mad. Ever since we –”

Gascon was not pleased to see Meve’s younger son at the best of times, but he could have cursed him for his inconvenient appearance right now, just as he thought Reynard was finally about to finally tell him what the hell was going on. Anséis regarded them both with some confusion, his eyes travelling from Gascon, clad only in his bedsheets, to Reynard, still wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the ball the night before and looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His expression was extremely dubious as he said: “What’s going on? It sounded like an argument…”

“Nothing, Anséis. Run along now, there’s a good prince…”

Anséis folded his arms. “Well, seeing as you’re both awake – we’ve got a curse to break and th’ love of my life to save, in case you’d forgotten. And no time to lose, either.”

Gascon opened his mouth to say that _he_ had yet to agree to take part in this rather hopeless sounding affair, but Reynard spoke first.

“Yes, Anséis, we’ll be right down. Is…is your mother up yet…?”

“Yes,” replied the prince, as he turned to leave. “She’s been up for hours – says we ought to try and find out all we can about th’ witch and th’ curse. So if you two are quite done doing…whatever it is you’re doing…we should all be on our way.”

They convened to plan their operation that afternoon, after a morning spent gathering as much information as they could. Anséis had gone to call on Isabelle, to find out more about where she had exactly she had gone to seek out the sorceress, and any other information she could recollect that might be of use; Gascon had put his irresistible charm to good use to search out tales and rumours of the witch on the streets of Beauclair. Meve and Reynard had gone to scour the duchess’ library for any references to her – though from the shy smiles and sidelong glances they were giving one another, Gascon had to wonder how much research had actually taken place.

He cleared his throat loudly as they exchanged another long look. “All right, you two – what did you discover?”

Meve shrugged. “Very little, I’m afraid. Plenty of fairy-stories and tales of witches and knights and princesses, but no references to a ‘Witch of the Woods’ near Beauclair.”

He raised an eyebrow and fixed Reynard with a stern look. The latter shrugged too, though his poorly concealed grin only confirmed Gascon’s suspicions. “It’s true – we couldn’t find anything specific, nothing which seemed to point to the witch that Isabelle met.”

Gascon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though the fact that Meve and Reynard seemed to be on far better terms again could only lift his spirits; he only hoped it would last this time. “Well, I didn’t learn much either – but what I _did_ learn was interesting. I came across a gang of street children near the docks who could tell me all sorts of strange and terrifyin’ tales of the Witch o’ th’ Woods, which seemed to align pretty well with the sorceress Isabelle encountered – a few spoke of her collecting hair, to weave with or somethin’ charming like that. But when I tried asking adults – most of ‘em had no idea what I was talkin’ about.”

“So th’ tales haven’t been handed down from parent to child,” Meve said thoughtfully. “That makes it sound as though th’ witch is new to Beauclair.”

“Tremendously powerful sorceresses don’t just appear out of nowhere, overnight,” said Reynard, frowning. “Where has she come from? Who is she?”

The four of them sat in silence for a moment, pondering.

Meve sighed. “An excellent question, Reynard, but one I fear we’ll not learn th’ answer to from either books or th’ townsfolk. What of you, Anséis? Were you able to learn anything new from Isabelle?”

Anséis nodded. “She told me exactly where she went to seek out the sorceress; I can lead us there. There was not much else she could tell me, however…” his voice faltered. “She…she’s losing her voice – she can barely speak, now. And she moved so stiffly…I don’t think she has long left.”

“Then we have no more time to lose,” said Meve, grimly. “I think we’ve learnt as much as we’re likely to – let’s go seek out th’ Witch of th’ Woods.”

They rode out that afternoon to the woods to the south of Beauclair, the bright mid-afternoon sun not quite enough to stop the faint shivers sliding down Gascon’s spine as they entered the forest. It was quiet amongst the trees; though he strained to listen to the sounds of the woods around them, he could hear nothing but the snapping of twigs under their horses’ hooves. They spoke little, all of them tense and alert as they scanned their surroundings, searching for any clues to lead them to the witch. As they continued deeper and deeper into the forest, and still found no trail to guide them, they began to fan out a little, looking for any sign at all of their quarry. Gascon noticed the trees in front of him beginning to thin; he could see the outlines of stone monuments beyond the trees – a graveyard. He called out to the others, for Anséis had told them Isabelle had mentioned a cemetery on her route – even if they had yet to see any sign of the witch, they were still on the right trail.

He dismounted, and continued his search on foot, for this was where Isabelle had said she’d first noticed the ravens. But he’d hardly taken a few steps before a voice halted him in his tracks.

“I’d take a little more care trampling through that patch of mandrake, if I were you.”

Gascon cursed himself for jumping as he looked up and saw an extremely ordinary-looking man regarding him thoughtfully. Yet he must be damned light of foot if he’d managed to catch him unawares.

“It’s the root of the mandrake,” continued the stranger mildly, “that is the most toxic. Still, squash enough of the leaves and stems beneath your boots and you’ll soon be feeling more than a little light-headed, I’ll wager.”

Gascon hastily stepped out of the midst of the broad green leaves. He looked at the man once more. There was something very vaguely familiar about him – though perhaps he just had one of those faces; he had something of the look of a law-clerk about him.

“Thanks for th’ warning, friend – s’pose I’m lucky you were here. Hang about much in cemeteries, do you, to warn folk o’ th’ dangers of plants?”

The man looked extremely amused. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I do. I’m certainly glad I could be of service on this occasion, at least.”

The others had caught up to him now, and approached Gascon and the man with looks of great curiosity. Reynard, he noted, had a faint frown creasing his brow, and he wondered if he, too, had been struck by that feeling of familiarity.

“Goodness,” said the man, taking them all in. “Here I was, thinking this particular patch of Toussantois paradise was out of the way enough to be enjoyed in solitude – and yet I’ve been graced with ample company; quite exalted company, too, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Indeed,” began Reynard predictably, ever a stickler for propriety and protocol. “Before you stands Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia, and her son, His Highness Prince Anséis – you seem already to have met His Grace, th’ Duke of Scala. And I am Count Reynard Odo.”

Something seemed to have diverted the stranger greatly; there was a sparkle in his eye as he bowed, and a hint of laughter in his voice. “An honour, I’m sure. Allow me to introduce myself – Emiel Regis, barber-surgeon.”

“A barber-surgeon?” echoed Meve, eyebrow raised. “Here, of all places? Well, perhaps you might advise us – we seek to aid a friend who’s in a bad way. I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a condition that turns flesh to porcelain, have you?”

Emiel Regis looked fascinated. “Flesh into porcelain? By which I assume you mean an actual transmutation, not merely a process turning skin into something _like_ china? No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such an affliction, nor met any individual suffering from such a thing. But I should gladly hear more about it, and provide any advice I may. And if you’ll follow me, I’m expecting a friend very shortly, who may well have some experience with such a condition – for I assume some kind of magic is involved in the process, and there’s not much he doesn’t know about curses.”

Their party exchanged glances – as unremarkable as this fellow appeared, what kinds of dubious acquaintances he might be meeting in otherwise deserted graveyards remained to be seen. But they had very little to go on, as far as this mission went, and they could hardly afford to turn down any information or assistance they could find. They reached a wordless agreement, and Meve nodded.

“Certainly – any expertise either you or your friend can provide would be of great help to us, I’m sure. We’d be extremely grateful for any insight you can share – so lead th’ way.”

They followed the man called Regis further into the cemetery, past rows of crooked, crumbling tombstones and dilapidated mausoleums.

“Now, my friend will be here shortly I imagine – but whilst we wait, would you care to tell me more of your friend’s complaint? Perhaps it will call to mind some other condition that I do have experience with.”

Meve briefly described the gradual transformation that was taking its toll on Isabelle, from its effect on her appearance to the change it was wreaking on her limbs – Gascon felt his stomach turn as she described the girl’s cracked shin once more.

Regis listened attentively, his fingers pressed into a steeple below his chin. “A grievous affliction indeed – a rather nasty curse has the girl in its grip, by the sounds of it. There is likely to be some way of reversing it – though I’ll defer to an expert’s opinion – perhaps even some kind of backdoor method, some condition which, if met, might dissolve the enchantment – ah, here he is! Geralt!”

They all turned to see they were being approached by a rather imposing figure, the hilts of two swords visible upon his back. Meve’s eyes narrowed, and her hands tightened into fists, whilst Reynard’s eyebrows shot up. Gascon felt a shock at the sight of him, too – for Geralt of Rivia possessed a face that one did not quickly forget. Interestingly, he noted Anséis coloured, but did not look at all surprised by the entrance of the witcher; it seemed the two had a prior acquaintance. Gascon would dearly have loved to find out how that had come about, and why it had Anséis looking so sheepish, but now, perhaps, was not the time. He resolved that he’d corner Anséis at the first opportunity and get it out of him, though. Gascon glanced back towards their new friend, and finally realised why he seemed familiar – he’d been in the company of the witcher, all those years ago. He had to hold back a laugh at the sheer cheek of it; he did not doubt that Emiel Regis had recognised them all at once, and deliberately failed to mention their prior acquaintance – and the fact that he was still technically wanted for desertion in Lyria.

It had been more than seven years since they’d seen the witcher last; the grey in Reynard’s hair continued its relentless advance on the brown, and Meve might claim the lighter streaks in her golden locks were due to the sun, but Gascon suspected there were at least a few strands of white among it. As for himself, well – it was plain enough that he could no longer spring out of bed after a night of drinking and dancing the way he once had. But the witcher hardly seemed to have aged a day. And certainly, the wary expression in his eyes as he and Meve regarded each other had not changed at all.

“Geralt – your timing is as auspicious as always. I’m sure you remember Her Majesty, Queen Meve – she and her companions have crossed our path, and have a problem on their hands which rather sounds like witcher’s work to me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not currently available. Your Majesty,” he added curtly, with the barest of nods towards Meve.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I remember well th’ last time you granted us your aid – I certainly haven’t forgotten how very reliable you turned out to be.”

The witcher's expression barely changed, yet a hint of frustration crept into his voice. "Apologies, Your Majesty – if I’d known that the Duchess wouldn't be the only royalty in need of my services here in Toussaint, I would have cleared my schedule more fully." Gascon had to bite back a snort at the obvious sarcasm in his voice.

Meve opened her mouth, a cutting retort doubtless on the tip of her tongue. Yet, to everyone's surprise, it was Anséis who spoke.

"Mother, please – despite his rough manners and awkward words, I know Sir Geralt to be a man of honour. Undoubtedly, his manner of speaking offends, but I believe if we can disregard his common ways, he will give us th' answers we need to save my beloved Isabelle from her terrible fate."

Meve blinked and stared at her son, a faintly baffled expression on her face. The witcher said nothing, his expression as deadpan as ever, though Gascon caught the corner of his mouth twitching, and suspected he was more amused than anything by the prince's backhanded compliments.

“I’m afraid I’m pretty tied up at the moment – sorry to disappoint.” He shot his friend an exasperated look. “But if you can tell me what your problem is, exactly, I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Anséis immediately launched into a highly animated, greatly embellished version of events; though it was a little convoluted, and painted himself in an extraordinarily good light, he did manage to convey all the essential information. However, the witcher did not look particularly impressed.

“She’s turning into a doll?” he said, with some scepticism. “Can’t say I’ve heard of that before – seen plenty of folk turned into beasts, birds, monsters even, but being cursed to become a child’s toy’s a new one.”

“Not that far-fetched though, surely,” said Regis, stroking his chin. “Not so different from the magic that could see one transformed into a jade statuette, for example – though in that case, of course, the transformation takes place on a purely metaphysical level –” He trailed off with a slightly apologetic smile as the witcher shot him a look that plainly said _Now is not the time_.

“We intended to seek out th’ witch today, and fate has led us to you, witcher,” continued Anséis eagerly. “It can’t be for nothing. Please, ride with us at once – the witch will stand no chance against us with you on our side, and then my Isabelle will surely be saved.”

“I know we’re often seen as mere monster-killers for hire,” he replied, eyebrow raised. “But where curses are involved, it usually takes a little more effort than just hacking the offending creature to bits. If you can’t persuade her to reverse the spell, killing the witch probably still won’t do the job on its own – the curse might not break even with her death. It’ll take some time, I’ll have to investigate, might have to find some elements of the spell to help counteract –”

“Then do it!” cried Anséis impatiently – though his tone was more desperate than imperious, for once. “Sir Geralt, whatever you demand, if it’s in my power, it’s yours.”

The slightest wince tugged at the witcher’s mouth – Gascon suspected Geralt was about as fond of titles as he was. “Did you not hear the part where I said it takes time? Like I said, I’ve got bigger things on my hands right now – bigger than saving one girl from a curse, no matter how awful it is.” He sighed. “Look, if you want me to take the contract, maybe I can look into it in a few days.”

“A few days is time Isabelle does not have! I saw her this morning, and she could barely move her mouth to speak to me.” Anséis paused as his voice cracked. “I know not what task occupies you that is of such great importance that you cannot aid us, but I will not stand by as some bitter old crone destroys th’ woman I love without doing everything in my power to prevent it.”

The witcher paused, the change in his attitude minute, but Gascon saw it; the twitch of his fingers, the slightest dilation of those cat-like pupils, the way his ears almost seemed to prick up. He seemed to contemplate Anséis’ words for a long moment, then spoke.

“Tell me again.”

Reynard quickly summarised the main points of the tale once more; Isabelle’s description of the witch and the curse laid on her, the likely whereabouts of the sorceress and the trail of ravens that had led her there, the stories that Gascon had heard from the street children and the fact that they seemed to be recent inventions.

The witcher was quiet whilst he listened to all of this, a slight frown furrowing his brow.

“Hmm. I don’t think…I don’t think this is just any witch you’re facing – something tells me that this is a particularly powerful one, ancient, even. It’s just a hunch…but I’d have been a dead witcher a long time ago if I didn’t listen to my gut.”

“And so? We turn tail and cower, is that what you suggest? Abandon th’ girl to her fate?” Meve folded her arms. “Many a time I’ve taken on a superior force, even fought against mages and their golems. I didn’t win two wars by running from those with greater power than I.”

“Your Majesty,” he began, this time without the ironic edge to his tone, “I know you’re a skilled warrior, and your companions too – but you have to understand, you can’t hope to face a power like this and win. You don’t have the abilities required to fight ancient magic like this; skill with a blade alone isn’t enough.” He exhaled, an impatient sound. “You need me. And I will help you – just not today.”

“Geralt,” broke in Regis. “You heard what they’ve said – this young woman, the curse seems to be taking hold of her at an extraordinary rate. I fear our hot-headed young prince’s impatience is warranted; I imagine once she loses the ability to speak, it won’t be long until she ceases to be at all.”

The witcher was silent again for a moment. “There is someone else who might be able to help you. But I’ll have to send word – and I don’t know how long it will take…” He exchanged a glance with his companion, who gave him a slight thoughtful nod.

Anséis shook his head. “I cannot allow any further delays – th’ risk that I will lose Isabelle is too great. Even if I must face th’ witch alone, I’d rather die in the attempt than fail her so completely.”

“Just as well, given you almost certainly will die,” the witcher replied flatly. “A day – give me one day, and I’ll try and summon another witcher to help you.”

Anséis looked like he would protest again, but Meve shot him a look. “If that is all th’ aid you can offer us, Geralt, then I suppose we must accept. But I think we must seek out th’ witch tomorrow regardless – th’ girl does not have much time left, and I won’t let my son face such a foe on his own.”

The witcher locked eyes with the queen, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. “It’s your neck, Your Majesty. Guess you’ll do as you see fit. But don’t say I didn’t warn you – if any of you survive this without a witcher’s help, it’ll be a miracle.”


	5. The Witch of the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written a little 'missing moment' vignette for this story - although Gascon's POV is absolutely perfect for this tale, it does mean there are some things we don't get to see. So if you'd like to know what happened between Meve and Reynard in the library last chapter, you can read it [here](https://queenmevesknickers.tumblr.com/post/645793038631845888/between-the-shelves-a-little-vignettemissing) on Tumblr.

Gascon’s eyes opened wide of their own accord next morning; though the hour was still early, he found he was wide awake at once, as memories of the night before quickly flooded his mind, sending a jolt running down his spine.

The sun was already setting as they made their way back to Beauclair, all consumed by the significance of their conversation with the witcher. Anséis in particular looked extremely unhappy, and kept looking back as though he was ready to turn his horse around any moment and charge back towards the witch to challenge her immediately. They made it back to the city and almost all the way back to their temporary home without incident, but when they were only a few streets away from Villa de Vedette they realised something was terribly wrong. Shouts filled the air – and they were not the cries of drunken revellers spilling out of the taverns. The sounds of hissing steel and hooves pounding the cobblestones caused them to turn to one another in alarm, and hasten onwards. The sight that greeted them around the next corner was unfathomable: a small group of the ducal guard hunched behind a makeshift barricade whilst a vicious monster, with claws like daggers and teeth like razors, tore one of their number apart, blood spraying into the already crimson-soaked street. He’d seen its kind before – in the swamps of Angren, Meve’s army had faced its share of vampires. But there was something terrible and incongruous about seeing one here, on the picturesque streets of Beauclair. It did not surprise him in the least to see his friends draw their swords and prepare to take their place alongside the guards at the barricade, and he quickly swung his bow from his back and prepared to do the same – after all, if they wished to reach the relative safety of the house, they had no other option.

Gascon had long been content to rest on his strengths when it came to combat; he was no slouch when it came to hand-to-hand fighting, but the command of a sword his friends had required years of patient drilling with an expert instructor, a luxury he had never enjoyed. But last night he had been gladder of it than ever – the beasts that attacked them made such long swipes with their vicious claws that even Reynard with his greatsword would have had trouble reaching them, and the knights of Toussaint fared no better. But his arrows found their mark, as they always did, and even though they failed to mortally wound, they seemed to distract and delay the monster until it seemed finally to decide that they weren’t worth the trouble of killing and took flight, leaping up the walls and over the rooftops, leaving them breathless and bloody – but fortunately, not seriously hurt. But it was not long until another took its place and they were forced to hold their precarious defence once more. Their luck held, however, and this one too eventually decided to seek out easier prey. When no further vampires appeared, they quickly took advantage of the temporary peace to traverse the final few streets to Villa de Vedette, as the surviving members of the ducal guard fell back in retreat towards the centre of the city.

He hadn’t been able to help casting an eye over the many knights and soldiers of the ducal guard they’d seen holding desperate barricades on the streets, searching for Henri. But he hadn’t spotted him anywhere amongst the chaos which had reigned on the streets of Beauclair, and could only hope that the knight had avoided any serious injury amongst the fray; for Gascon had no doubt he would have been in the thick of the fighting. Fortunately, his fears were soon banished by the appearance of the man himself on their doorstep – though it soon became clear he was not there for a polite social call.

“Henri, what a charming –” But the knight cut him off, looking furious.

“I have come to find out exactly what's going on. My sweet cousin Isabelle is confined to her room by grief, her engagement apparently called off – I demand an explanation!"

Ah. He could easily guess what had happened. Doubtless, the curse had continued to take hold of poor Isabelle, and she had decided to give up hope and free Anséis of the obligation of their betrothal. How to explain this to the irate knight before him without betraying the unfortunate girl’s confidence, however, was quite another thing – and not made any easier by said knight's rather distracting good looks, even as he clenched his finely chiselled jaw in anger.

"Henri – this is news to me –"

"Oh, really! I'm supposed to believe that – and you, so clearly in the confidence of your beloved queen, I highly doubt it! My poor cousin is clearly heart-broken, and I have no doubt that her cherished prince is the cause – and now you seek to cover up his fickle, dishonourable behaviour; bah, I suppose this is what we get for trusting Northerners –"

Gascon exhaled in frustration, though he had to admit, Henri's clear affection for his little cousin was rather endearing. "No, Henri, listen – I swear it's not like that…" Quickly, he seized on an explanation that chivalrous Toussaintois might understand. "You see – Anséis is determined to undertake…a quest."

"A quest?" The knight's tone was one of extreme suspicion.

"Indeed – to…to prove his love for Isabelle."

"I see," said Henri, frowning. "But such is the stuff of all young maidens' dreams; I cannot understand what has upset her so, if what you say is true."

"She fears for him," he replied quickly, hating for the first time how easily the lies rolled off his tongue. "For it is an uncommonly dangerous task he seeks to undertake. But, uh…undertake it he must…because…uh…"

"For he has sworn to," said Henri, nodding gravely. "No, I do understand now; she must have tried to break off the engagement to dissuade him, but as your prince is a man of honour, he seeks to carry out his mission nonetheless."

"Ah…yes…something like that," agreed Gascon with relief. "Now, I hate to be rude, Henri, but we've much preparation ahead of us before we ride out –"

" _We_? You are to accompany His Highness? Truly, how dangerous is this quest?" Henri frowned in concern. "Ought I to ride with you as well?"

Gascon hesitated for a moment, surprised at how tempted he was to accept the offer; there was something comforting in the thought of Henri's cheerful, earnest company as they faced their mysterious and powerful foe. But again, there was no way to involve him without betraying Isabelle's secret – and besides, between Meve and Anséis, he rather thought that their party already contained too many fearless, headstrong types, ready to charge headlong into battle without due consideration. "No, Henri – that's kind of you, but surely you’re greatly needed here – after th’ events of last night –"

"What you say is true – no doubt Her Grace will require all of her knights today, to restore order and peace to the city." He sighed. "In that case, I will pray for your safety and your success." And to his great surprise, Henri placed a hand on his cheek and gave him a long, sweet kiss. "Farewell, Gascon, and may the gods be with you – I very much hope to see you again soon.”

Gascon was still standing by the front door, lost in very pleasant thoughts, when Meve came down the stairs.

“What’s got you glowing like a milkmaid in springtime, hm?”

He hastily brought his hand away from his mouth, where his fingers had been unconsciously brushing his lips. “Ah, nothing, Meve. Delightful weather today, eh? Just th’ perfect conditions to go and challenge an ancient, powerful being to mortal combat, wouldn’t you say?”

She looked at him as though he were a madman. “Was that Sir Henri I heard? Had he any news for us?”

“Oh…yes, he did.” Gascon dragged his thoughts away from the warmth of the knight’s hand on his cheek and recalled the much less pleasant tidings he had brought. “Isabelle’s in a bad way, I wager – she’s taken to her room, said th’ engagement’s called off.”

Meve nodded, and Gascon was struck by just how troubled she looked. “And still, we’ve heard nothing from th’ witcher. Anséis is already champing at th’ bit, he’ll up and announce he’s off before much longer, I’ve no doubt – and I can’t let him go alone.”

Gascon held her gaze for a long moment. “I know you understood what he said just as well as I did – Meve, if we do this, we mightn’t live to tell th’ tale.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But no matter how foolish he is, he’s my son. And if being in love has made him even stupider than usual, well –” She glanced back up the stairs, towards Reynard’s door. “Well, who am I to judge?”

She had a point. Thinking once more of the sight of Henri, shining in his armour in the bright Beauclair sun, Gascon thought he might be beginning to understand something of the reason for everyone’s peculiar behaviour lately.

“You don’t have to come, you know,” Meve said quietly. “I’m grateful that you’ve always stood by me when it counts, Gascon – but it isn’t th’ fate of th’ kingdom that hangs in th’ balance this time. It’s a family matter – I can’t expect you to risk your life just for th’ sake of my boy.”

He stepped closer and took her hands. “Oh, Mevie. Of course it’s a family matter – that’s exactly why I’ve no choice but to come with you.”

And when she threw her arms around him, he hugged her back as tightly as he could.

Meve was correct; it was not long before Anséis’ patience wore out, and he declared that he would be seeking out the witch immediately, witcher or no witcher. So they quickly readied themselves as best they could, and set out once more for the woods.

As they rode deeper and deeper through the forest, the hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Far from the unnatural silence of the other day, his eyes now darted in a dozen different directions as the trees around them shuddered with unearthly creaks and groans. The branches seemed almost to extend their long, grabbing limbs towards them, pulling them deeper and deeper into the woods. The canopy above them was thick and dense – hardly any light or warmth made its way through the abundant leaves above them; the ground was cloaked in a damp mist. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago they had been basking in the warm, golden light of the Toussaint summer – he could well imagine that parts of this forest had never known the sun’s heat. They came to a point where the trees grew too closely, the undergrowth almost impenetrable, and were forced to dismount and continue on foot. Wordlessly, they stuck close together, hands on their hilts, ready for anything.

Eventually, they came to a clearing; it was hard not to feel suddenly exposed after the suffocating thickness of the woods around them. They advanced no further, standing on the edge of the glade, taking in the scene before them. There was a pond at one end, and a cave on the other side of the grove, which showed some evidence of being inhabited; there was a large cauldron that sat by its entrance, and beside it a loom. The weaving looked as though it had hardly begun; so far only a border seemed to be taking shape. The pattern appeared to contain symbols, of which Gascon could not begin to guess the meaning, though the unfamiliar shapes gave him an uneasy feeling – as did the familiar shade of chestnut he spotted in the latest rows of the work. But neither was as chilling as the dozens of pairs of bright black eyes that stared at them from the trees – every branch seemed to hold a darkly glossy raven, its gaze fixed firmly on their party.

It was Anséis who broke the silence and stepped forth into the clearing with a boldness that Gascon had to admire. “I have come to see th’ Witch of th’ Woods,” he called in a loud, clear voice. “You have wronged th’ woman I love, and I have come to seek my vengeance.”

Nothing seemed to happen for a moment. Then in a blink of an eye, the ravens all vanished.

“My, my. A handsome young prince, come to call on me? What a treat. What a delight.”

It was like no voice Gascon had heard before. It was distorted, warped, as though it came from a place far away, a time long ago; there was a rasp, a buzz to the timbre, a sibilant hiss to the sounds. It grated on his ears like chalk against a slate, and he had to clench his jaw to suppress the shiver that slid down his spine. A part of him wished not to turn and look for the source of the sound, as though he knew that he did not wish to see whatever creature produced such an eerie noise. But his eyes were drawn to her, all the same.

She stood in the pond, though he could have sworn but a moment ago, it had been empty. He needed only a glance to know that this was the witch that Isabelle had spoken of – _so very lovely, and so very terrible_. Her hair flowed long and silky, her complexion was impossibly perfect; her body as she emerged from the water looked like something a master might render from marble. The surface of the pond was opaquely dark, light barely catching the ripples as she moved gradually towards them. It was with a creeping dread that Gascon realised the swells moved far more slowly and thickly than water should, and that it was a dark red tide that clung to the witch’s bare skin and dripped down her pale limbs. 

She walked slowly towards Anséis. “Oooooh, but you are a pretty one, aren’t you? I can see now why she was so desperate to have you. And such a happy life you’ve led – as sweet as sugar, you must be.” She reached out one bloody hand to touch Anséis’ cheek. He swallowed hard, but did not flinch.

“I will not have her suffer for my sake,” he replied, his voice still steady. “Either you will remove the curse, or I will –”

“Or what? You’ll give me a taste of your sword, princeling?” She licked her lips slowly. “I think I would enjoy that…and why would I remove the curse? I gave her what she wanted, after all.”

“She struck an honest bargain with you, and you have condemned her to an awful fate!”

She shrugged. “She wished to be as pretty as her little china doll – and what a pretty little doll she will make. And now her foolish wish has led you to me…a better bargain than I could ever have dreamed of.”

“Then you have no further need of her – I demand you release her from th’ spell.”

“Her fate is not yet sealed…an act of true love could save her.” Her smile was so awful that Gascon had to force himself not to look away.

“Then she will be saved,” declared Anséis resolutely. “For my love for her is –”

She laughed again. “What do you know of love, little prince? A pretty face caught your eye and enchanted you as thoroughly as any man. Are desire and love one and the same to you? You don’t even know what she really looks like.”

Anséis opened his mouth but could make no reply.

Meve stepped forward to stand by her son. “I cannot speak for what lies in my son’s heart – but regardless of how he feels about th’ girl, he has come here to risk his life to save her. And he will not stand against you alone.”

The witch took a step back, surveying them all with a gleeful expression. “Oh, can’t we all play nicely? It will be so much more pleasant for you all if we do…”

Meve drew her sword; Reynard and Anséis followed suit. In a motion fluid from years of practice, Gascon slipped his bow from his back and an arrow from his quiver.

“Well, if you insist…” And the witch’s smile became more and more terrible until all vestiges of her loveliness were swept away; where the dreadfully beautiful woman had been only a moment before, now stood a being who was nothing but ghastly. She crouched, bent and hunched, her skin grey and pallid, her hair coarse and white. One eye was covered with a bloodied bandage, but where the other should be there was an awful growth that seemed to fester with insects. She grinned still, her mouth red and gaping like an open wound.

They had taken on their share of powerful, monstrous foes in their time; Gascon was not likely to forget their encounter with the terrible Gernichora until the end of his days. But it soon became clear that the witch was a stronger enemy than they had ever faced before – and this time, they numbered but four; they had no army behind them now. It was difficult to resist the temptation to throw himself into the fray with his friends, but he kept his head and fell back to a distance where his bow would be of some use. Meve, Reynard and Anséis remained in a tight formation, their blades forming a veritable wall of attacks and counters as the witch began to strike at them, with far more agility and power than her bent limbs and awkward gait suggested. Meve and Reynard were both experts with a sword; Gascon had rarely seen their equal, and when they fought side by side, they were a formidable team. But even they seemed barely able to land a blow as the witch blocked and ducked and weaved about them.

Gascon thought Reynard was finally about to strike her, but just his blade ought to have sunk into her flesh, she dissolved into a flock of ravens, which swooped around the glade before reforming behind them. Quickly, he loosed an arrow, but it went wide. He cursed; it wasn’t a shot he should have missed. He aimed and shot again, but the second arrow failed to meet its mark too, and he realised she must be deflecting them somehow. Before he could try a third time, she transformed into the birds once more, and dove to reappear in yet another place. He began to understand her tactic as Meve, Reynard and Anséis began to spread further from each other as they tried to catch her again and again; no sooner had one of them reached her and tried to land a few blows than she would fly off to land near another of them. Gradually they moved further and further apart, until they could no longer watch each other’s backs – and so lost their best form of defence.

Time seemed to slow as Gascon saw the flock of ravens dive straight at Meve, her back turned to them. He cried out in warning, and she began to turn; Reynard charged towards her, but he was too far away. It was Anséis who reached her just in time, and dove into the ravens’ path and took the brunt of the attack, before falling unconscious to the ground. Meve howled with rage and pain as she saw her son crumple at her feet, and whirled around to strike at the witch, who had appeared just behind her – but her blow failed to land as the crone dodged away once more, cackling. Gascon began to suspect she was only playing with them; that the minute the witch grew bored, she could fell them all with a single blow. He wondered how long it would take before she had amused herself sufficiently and killed them all.

It was just as he was beginning to feel they had no chance at all that a bright flash of blue-green light lit the clearing, temporarily blinding them all. He thought at once that it must be some new magic from the witch – that perhaps now she would finish them once and for all. But as he blinked, he saw what looked like a young woman stride into their midst; a young woman with white-blonde hair, and two blades upon her back.

The witch cackled, seemingly delighted by the sudden appearance of this stranger in their midst. “Child of the Elder Blood!” she crooned, in a voice filled with both hatred and longing. “I have often wondered when fate would see our paths cross once more.”

The young woman had already drawn the bright silver blade from her back and held it aloft. “We’ve some unfinished business, you and I – I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Their new ally fought like no one Gascon had ever seen before. She dove and dodged and pirouetted with apparently effortless grace, her long silver sword hardly visible except for the bright flashes of light it gave off as she thrust and struck and parried in quick succession. She moved impossibly quickly, seeming almost to vanish and reappear, sometimes so quickly she seemed to be in more than one place at once. Gascon blinked and watched her raptly, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he realised that she _was_ disappearing and reappearing. He was transfixed for a moment, watching as the witch dissolved once more into the ravens and dived at the young warrior, who then, in turn, flickered out of existence with a flash of blue-green light and appeared on the other side of the grove, already swinging her blade to collide with the crone as she reformed. He shook himself – this was no time to become distracted, however extraordinary the sight before him might be; she might be more of a match for the witch than any in their party had been, but that was no reason to suppose the stranger did not need their aid. He drew his bow once more, sparing an extra second to be sure of his aim before letting the arrow fly. This time, distracted by the relentless silver blade before her, the Witch of the Woods did not dodge or deflect or dissolve away, and it struck her firmly in the foul, infested socket of her eye. The wound, which would surely have caused any mortal foe to drop dead at once, merely caused her to scream in anguish, but it seemed that this was all the opening that the ashen-haired woman needed, as she quickly whirled her sword round to slice cleanly through the crone’s wizened neck.

There was a moment of silence as they all regarded the witch’s corpse; even the young warrior seemed to hesitate, although fearing the lifeless, decapitated body might yet leap up in one final attack. Yet as the moment dragged on and all remained still, she seemed to recover her courage and swiftly bent to snatch a shining pendant from the ground where it had fallen from the witch’s severed neck.

“My apologies for the lateness of my arrival,” said the young woman, turning to face them all, a half-smile playing on her mouth. “I can travel quickly, but I was in Skellige, and it took some time for the message that I was needed here to reach me.”

“No matter,” said Meve, who looked shaken, and more than a little awed by the scene they had just witnessed. “Your aid we appreciated greatly. It’s plain enough that without it, we could not have prevailed.”

The warrior – or witcher, he supposed, from the two swords she carried – opened her mouth to speak, but then seemed to meet Meve’s eye for the first time, and the two women froze, staring at each other.

“How…?” said Meve softly. “No, surely, it can’t be –”

“You remind me of her – of my grandmother,” the young woman replied, and Meve’s eyes widened.

She shook her head in wonder. “You favour her greatly yourself – and your mother, too. I knew – I knew as soon as I saw that portrait, she didn’t look right – yet we all accepted it –”

“No matter,” the young woman said firmly, shaking her head. “That was never my destiny. Fate had long intended another path for me.”

Gascon had already admired the young woman’s talent with her blade, but now found he liked her even more. Meve clearly found much to admire, too, for she hesitated, then determined to speak.

“If you tired of your path – if you wanted a life closer to that which was denied you; well, I have a son who is in dire need of a suitable alliance…”

Whilst he could well understand the appeal of such a daughter-in-law to Meve – especially if Anséis was to wed the timid Isabelle after all – Gascon wished he was close enough to kick her for even suggesting it; if she wasn’t careful, she was going to become insufferably meddlesome in her middle age. 

The stranger smiled in amusement. “A tempting offer, I’m sure – but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for. Besides, I doubt anyone would be pleased to see a wild witcheress take to a throne, no matter how blue her blood is.”

Meve nodded in reluctant understanding. “In any case, we owe you thanks, and a vast debt of gratitude. You have saved us all.”

The clearing seemed different now – the air had lost some of its chill, the trees didn’t seem to crowd in on them as they had before. Even the silence felt less oppressive, and the pond looked as though it were filled with water once more.

Anséis groaned, rolled over, and vomited. Meve instantly turned and fell to her knees beside him.

“Mother?” he said, faintly, blinking up at her. “…did I do it? Is she gone?”

She pulled him tightly into her arms, smiling warmly even as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Yes, my darling boy. You did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE THERE'S ONLY ONE CHAPTER TO GO!!


End file.
